When the skies cry
by Rachel Melissa
Summary: When the lie becomes too much it's nice to have someone who can see beyond the facade, or is it? A drabble about Harry and Ginny's life in the postwar world. Slightly AU.


**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, I only borrowed the characters.

 **Author's Note:** The story just sprang to my mind one evening over a cup of tea and I decided to write it down. Forgive me if there are any mistakes, English is not my native language. Reviews would be greatly appreciated, as I'm new to fanfiction and doing my best to improve.

 **When the skies cry**

 _The storm is raging outside, rattling on the roofs, bending the trees. The branches slide against windows, scraping them with a grating noise. The wind howls and weeps like a beast that has lost its pups. Fighting its way with teeth and claws through a swarm of enemies, it seeks to avenge those it held dear and die at the threshold of Hell. People that stay awake at such nights sometimes confess to getting a strong sense of foreboding that makes their skin crawl. The shadows become a bit sharper, fears a bit clearer. Instinct snatches the reins of power from the reason and brings to life hidden demons and thoughts that dare not make an appearance during the day._

In a warm cozy house sheltered from the ruthless tempest a woman lies in bed. With her disheveled ginger hair scattered across the pillow and hands entwined protectively over her body, she seems young and fragile. A flash of lightning illuminates her pale face that looks almost sickly against the dark background. With a snap shot, it reveals the sweat beading on her forehead, the pursed lips, the furrowed brows knitted together. She resembles a taut string ready to snap. A clasp of booming thunder reverberates across the room jolting Ginevra Weasley awake. Instantly, her eyes fly open and the fists clench instinctively around the wand. She tries to get up, but fails, as her legs get entangled in the blanket. The light comes on. But it has an ominous red tint.

Ginny slowly sages against the wall and drops her head on her hands, her uneven rasping breathing drowned by the clatter of rain. She strains to discern the objects in the room, but her vision is blurred. She feels dizzy and disoriented, her lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and no matter how much she tries she cannot seem to suck in enough air. Her mind keeps conjuring up new horrifying images and churning back to the old ones. Memories and fantasies merge together creating a new surreal world, and suddenly the girl is gripped by a visceral fear that they just might swallow her whole. The night smothers her, the walls start to close in and the air tastes ashen. There are rapidly approaching footsteps and the door bursts open, but Ginny doesn't hear anything over the pounding of her heart. A firm hand grasps het wrist and she is pulled against something warm. As fingers ruffle her hair and she feels another's pulse beat steadily against her own erratic one she finally starts to come to her senses. Sobs rack her body and tears trickle down the pale cheeks while Harry gently rocks her back and force. His T-shirt is wet but he doesn't care, neither does she. When her breath becomes less labored and the hiccups cease Harry pulls back a little and looks her in the eyes. In the depth of blinding green she finds something she doesn't want to see ...understanding. Her flinch is almost imperceptible; she slowly moves away and puts some distance between them. She smiles shakily and wipes her face with a sleeve. Harry sighs and hugs her again. Ginny thinks she might come to hate him. Ensconced in his arms and breathing in his scent she thinks that Harry's hair smells ashen too.

…

 _The world was burning, flames licked and shrieked, blazing tendrils devouring everything within their reach without mercy and without thought. Like a savage breast driven by its hunger, they grasped with greedy hands anything they came across and devoured it with a satisfied growl. It was sickening and beautiful. The fire moved leaving in its stead a thick pall that obscured the vision and once inhaled made you stumble and double coughing, lungs screaming for oxygen. There were fallen burnt out trunks, and ashes, and blood smearing the ground, though you couldn't see it even if the smoke dissipated. Dark red doesn't stand out against the black._

 _The wind whispers and soothes, cooling down the heated skin, gently dislodging dirty shaggy hair and singing promises of a better day and a better peaceful world. An iridescent world with blue and white and green; with colors swirling and mixing, dancing and flowing, the tide running and coming.  
_

 _There has been too much red for a life time. Red tapestry on the walls of the dormitory, red leaves swirling all around, red ink, red eyes, red flash, red vine, red fire, red sky._

The light bulbs in the old Chinese chandelier - a gift from Author Weasley- explode showering the floor with thousands of multicolored sharps as Harry jumps out of the bed, puts on the boots and heads for the door, ignoring his startled wife. The broken glass crumbles beneath his feet, but he doesn't pay it any mind. The morning meets him with the fresh air of early predawn hours and the urge to leave the confines of this house becomes irresistible. Calling his broom Harry shoots upwards toward the dark outlines of clouds in the grey sky. As the deafening roar of the wind muffles all other sounds and Harry's vision narrows to a spot, he feels momentarily happy and carefree. Without the burden of responsibility and memories he is once again just Harry, a boy who has discovered a new wonderful world and been told that wizards could fly. He sees faces all around him, young and exuberant, excitedly waving slogans and chanting at the top of their voices, cheering him up. Suddenly adventurous, he launches the broom in a steep nosedive plummeting 900 feet down to the ground only to rise up again in a sharp curve. He repeats the move again and again laughing till his throat is raw. The sun emerges from the horizon, and Harry goes into a loop. The wind howls, the crowds shout, the new day - with a brush - generously applies colors to the world, painting the skies as it sees fit. The ground is approaching fast and as it does the faces become older and fewer as though an invisible hand had cropped the picture till only a few battered figures were left standing, silently watching his descend. From the corner of his eyes he catches a glimmer of something that makes his heart sink.

The faces change from stern to accusing. The broom keeps gaining speed, and, were he to look at the glistening lake below, he would probably see his reflection in the rippling water, but Harry's eyes are riveted to his hands – for I moment he believes they are smeared in blood. Snapping out of the daze he realizes what is happening and desperately pulls back in an attempt to level the broom out; he wonders whether he will have to buy a new one yet again. The hit comes as an unpleasant shock, as the cold water closes above his head and the momentum drags him deeper down he can see the reddish sun become blurred and dark. The magic swells inside his body and then bursts out buying him up, almost making it look as if the lake had spit him out. Sprawled on the lane Harry stares absentmindedly at the blue skies above, his thoughts fleeting and slow.

The guests must have already arrived and the party is probably at full spring at the moment, with everyone laughing, joking, drinking, as though there were nothing wrong with their lives. The thought of moving fills him with nausea, and he doesn't think he is up to apparating just jet. Finally he stands up and starts walking. He reaches the small town and trudges up a street. His battered appearance draws glances and he has to wave off the concerns of a few loiterers that stop to offer him help. He ignores the blares of cabs and elbows his way through a group of tourists that have blocked the passage.

Three hours later when he finally arrives, the party is well over and Ginny is sitting on the stairs fiddling with her necklace. Her flimsy frame stands out against the wealthy, cheerfully decorated mansion, and the light makes the shadows under her eyes more prominent. Her expression doesn't change when she looks up and silently takes stock of his appearance - shaggy torn clothes, a graze on his left cheek, a bruise on the elbow. As Harry sits beside her she quietly takes out her wand and begins a long string of incantations. The hair gets in her face and she swiftly brushes it away. She asks Harry something about his injuries and he tersely replies. She doesn't comment. She understands, and Harry almost hates her for it . He wonders whether she would mind to have her hair painted black for a couple of weeks. He knows she wouldn't, but the sad knowing glint in her eyes would be too much to bear.  
They sit in silence, fingers intertwined and shoulders touching, and watch a flock of birds fly by. An elderly couple spare them a glance and smile to each other no doubt thinking about the beauty of love and remembering their own happy youth. They walk away and never look back to see how the hands of the happy lovers turn white-knuckled and the eyes become just a little bit too bright.

…

Tomorrow there will be another party. And they will laugh, and drink, and joke. Ginny will put on her brand-new hand-made dress and yet again overshadow everyone. Eliciting gasps and whistles, accepting compliments with the ease of the woman of the world, she will move from one group to another, striking up conversation, making flippant comments. And Harry will smile, discuss the latest Quidditch tournament, complain about the tedious job and boast about his newest feint. He will be patted on the back and congratulated on his outstanding achievements, then someone will make a joke and a roar of laughter will reverberate across the room. Among the booming music, swirling pairs and smiling faces they will become complacent and carefree...until another storm comes by and one of them wakes up screaming.


End file.
